


Calathea

by 13th_blackbird



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Apologies, Arihnda's a mess but she's getting there, F/M, Flower Language, Fluff, Second-Hand Embarrassment, girl get therapy, spite gardens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 04:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14947874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13th_blackbird/pseuds/13th_blackbird
Summary: Arihnda Pryce doesn't know how to apologize, but for Thrawn, maybe she can figure it out.





	Calathea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ap_trash_compactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ap_trash_compactor/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Dealer in Hope](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13932813) by [ap_trash_compactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ap_trash_compactor/pseuds/ap_trash_compactor). 



> A gift for [ap_trash_compactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ap_trash_compactor/pseuds/ap_trash_compactor) who is an amazing writer and a super-smart, talented, and insightful beta reader. This fic is heavily based on/takes place in the same AU as her work, [A Dealer in Hope](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13932813/chapters/32071284), which made even me, a die-hard Thranto shipper, weep over this "dark-haired wreck of a low-rent Cersei Lannister."
> 
> Thank you to [tristesses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses) for beta-ing and spitballing as per usual. <3

 

Wanting to apologize is a new sensation for Arihnda Pryce. She can feel it within her, something soft, something that wants to be like. Something that, if she had to put a name to it, she'd call desperate.

Arihnda doesn’t want to be desperate. She doesn’t like this need to fix…what? She hesitates to even put a name to what she’s desperate to  _ fix.  _

When she came to Thrawn for help with Ghadi, when she proposed an exchange of favors, she had thought that was how it would remain. An exchange. Even an exchange of favors that included sex could be a business proposition. Or at least, that’s what she’d told herself.

But she does not like the expression on Thrawn's face—as much as she can tell that there is an expression there—the night she asks him to hurt her. (And that’s something else she’s not considering: how she’s becoming increasingly aware of his expressions, his moods, his reactions.) 

She doesn’t like the need to stop him from looking at her like that. And, beyond that, she’s not even sure  _ how _ to fix it. Their relationship (she allows herself to call it a  _ relationship _ ) isn't one of words, but of actions.

When Juahir sees her doing what can only be called  _ moping around the apartment _ she says, “Gods, Arihnda, what is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Arihnda snaps. Nothing she wants to tell Juahir, anyway. 

“Trouble with that guy?” Juahir says, slyly. “The one you won't tell me about?”

“No,” Arihnda says, completely unconvincingly. 

“What did he do?” Juahir says. 

“He didn't do anything.”

“What did  _ you _ do?”

“I didn't—” Arihnda starts and can't finish and hates herself for not being able to hide the way her face falls. 

“What did you  _ do _ ?” Juahir says, looking fascinated. 

She doesn't want to talk to Juahir about this. Or, for that matter, about anything. Ever. But who else can she ask? 

“I think I...offended him,” Arihnda manages. 

“You should apologize, then. I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Juahir says, light, unconcerned. She has no idea what’s unfolding between Arihnda and Thrawn; it’s not a matter of just  _ apologizing, _ it’s more complicated than that—

“I did!” Arihnda says, trying not to think  _ mostly _ . “But—”

“You feel bad about it, still?”

Arihnda nods. That's not quite right, but it's close enough. 

“Buy him something. A gift,” Juahir declares. “Get him, like...what kind of stuff does he like?”

Being really,  _ really _ good in bed, Arihnda thinks. Espionage. Power. 

“Uh,” she says. 

“Arihnda,” Juahir says playfully. “You two aren't doing a lot of  _ talking _ , are you? Are you sure he's worth the expense? Maybe there's another way to say you're sorry…”

Arihnda doesn't laugh. The answer is yes, he's worth the expense, and the concern, and she's not sure how she feels about that. 

Juahir takes in the look on Arihnda’s face and says, softly: “Flowers are always nice. Traditional, but they’re traditional for a reason.”

 

#

 

_ Flowers. _ For Thrawn of all people. The Chiss probably don't even have that tradition anyway. He's not the type.  _ She's _ not the type. Arihnda scoffs about it to herself, and then keeps scoffing at it all day. It's a stupid idea. The worst idea she's ever heard. 

She ends up at a little florist's shop on her way home from work that evening. 

Cut flowers seem like an even worse idea, now that she's looking at the bright bouquets, the sickly-sweet scent of them  filling her nostrils. That not-desperation is climbing up her chest, into her throat. She's about to turn around and leave, when the florist, a short, rotund human man with thinning gray hair and a friendly expression, intercepts her.

“Can I help you find something, miss?” he says. 

Arihnda’s already come here; she's already considered the idea. She might as well see it through.

“I need a plant. Not cut flowers.” she says, all in a rush. “It's a gift. For a friend. It should be, alive, I think— in soil.”

The florist smiles at her, and Arihnda almost runs out of the shop anyway. “I prefer to keep them growing, too,” he says. “A nice reminder of you, every time your friend sees it.”

A reminder of her. Arihnda feels a pang within her, not unlike the feeling of looking down from somewhere very high up, and nods sharply. 

“What kind of environment will it be in?”

“On a ship,” Arihnda says. This man is being so kind and she can only force the words out tightly, as though this is torture.  _ You’re buying a gift,  _ she reminds herself.  _ This is fine.  _

“Low light, low humidity, temperate,” the florist says, not looking at her, instead considering the wall of color behind them. “I have a few things that should be all right, for that.” 

Will Thrawn take it with him when he leaves? Will he think of her when he sees it?  _ How _ will he think of her, if he does?

Maybe cut flowers would have been better. 

He shows her a few options, patiently. She rejects all of them. A ridiculously tall, lacy fern, a bright green one with broad leaves and extremely phallic-looking flowers —she almost chooses it out of perverse pique and then remembers that she's supposed to be apologizing.

Nothing seems right, and then she realizes: they're not enough like him. 

“How about this? It's a little unusual,” the florist says. 

It is a little unusual, Arihnda thinks. She smiles, despite herself, looking at it. It’s small, its pot would fit in her cupped hands easily. The leaves are dark blue-green, small and heart shaped. In the plant’s center, there's a single stalk of flowers, elegant bell shapes grouped close together, shining ice blue. It's not at all like him, really, except for the color. But it seems to fit, somehow.

“I'll take it,” she says, and that tight feeling, the desperate one, lifts a little. 

 

#

 

Buying the plant—the  _ gift— _ is one thing. Actually giving it to Thrawn is something else. 

“What’s this?” he asks. 

Arihnda had set it down on the table as soon as she came into the room, trying not to be too obvious about it. Almost like she thinks she can pretend it’s been there the whole time. 

“It’s for you,” she says.

He looks at her steadily.  _ That’s not what I asked,  _ she can almost hear him saying. 

“I’m sorry for…” She doesn’t want to meet his eyes, but she has to. “I’m sorry about the other night. For making you—for asking you—I’m just sorry. All right?” 

“You brought me a gift. To apologize?” he says, and he’s almost, not-quite, smiling. 

Arihnda wants to knock the plant off the table, or say something cutting. 

Instead, she says, “Yes.”

And then he does, actually, fully smile at her. “No apologies are necessary, I think, Miss Pryce. Arihnda. We are both learning each other. Mistakes—on both of our parts—are to be expected; I take no offense.” 

She’s smiling too, she can’t help it. She doesn’t like thinking of making more  _ mistakes _ , that’s for certain. And she’s not sure he  _ really _ means he’ll make any. But she believes him when he says he takes no offense. When he says they’re both learning. 

Arihnda likes the idea of  _ learning each other. _

He pulls her toward him, then, puts his hands on either side of her face, and kisses her, gently. 

She does want to be liked. She wants Thrawn to like her, and she thinks he already does. In spite of everything. 

Apologizing isn’t so bad, after all. 

 

#

 

The next time she sees him, the next time she’s in his office, she notices that her gift, her  _ apology _ , has pride of place on his desk, between artworks. He’s even bought a small sun lamp for it. 

It’s thriving, under his care and attention. And so is she.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The plant that Arihnda gives to Thrawn is inspired by the [Ice Blue Calathea](https://www.flickr.com/photos/carllewis/3788187664/). The internet tells me that the gift of a calathea plant represents "new beginnings, a fresh start, turning over a new leaf." The appropriateness of the gift is a happy accident on my part, but I'll take it.


End file.
